


Wit, Luck, and a Silver Tongue

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Fairy Godmothers (Westeros style) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Crack Treated Seriously, Fairy Godparents, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: When Tyrion was born, seven blessings were bestowed upon him in the cradle.“He shall have a keen wit,” the first fairy godmother intoned."He shall have a silver tongue," said the second.“He shall be generously endowed,” the third announced, giggling. “And he shall never fail to please.”Bronn squinted down at the babe. “He shall always land on his feet," he said. "He’ll need to be a lucky bastard to survive this world.”**[Or; Bronn is Tyrion's fairy godmother.]





	Wit, Luck, and a Silver Tongue

**

**Prologue**

**

When Tyrion was very young, his brother Jaime had told him a story. Tyrion had loved it so much he begged Jaime to tell it over and over, until he knew every single word by heart. 

The story went like this:

Once, long ago, the King of the Uttermost West had been a happier, gentler man. He fell in love with a golden princess and made her his Queen, and in the fullness of time she gave birth to twin golden children, a beautiful princess and a strong, handsome prince, as alike as two peas in a pod. 

The King loved his wife and his children above all other things. At their grand presentation, when the children were presented to the world, no less than seven lords and ladies of Faerie attended the newborn babes to grant them their blessings. 

When the Queen grew round with child once more, all of Faerie rejoiced. 

The Queen loved the child growing within her. She made swaddling clothes of the softest white cloth and embroidered them with her own hand. She made her young, golden son promise to look after the child and love him as a brother should.

But alas, even in Faerie there is sometimes a shadow, and even as the child was born, the Queen died in bringing him to life. The grieving King, heart-broken, could not bear to look upon his new son, haunted by the memory of his beloved Queen. 

But though the King and the Princess blamed the youngest Prince for their mother’s death, Prince Jaime looked upon the new babe, so innocent and helpless despite his misshapen form, and felt nothing but love. 

“He’s just an innocent babe,” he said to his sister. “He cannot be blamed for our mother’s death.”

But Princess Cersei would not be consoled.

Neither the King nor the Princess wished to acknowledge the youngest Prince by presenting him to the world. But Prince Jaime was determined that his brother would not be denied. 

“He is a Prince of Faerie, no matter what anyone else says,” he said. “It is his birthright.” 

And so he went to the wise maester of Casterly Rock and begged his counsel. 

“If the King will not present him, young master,” old Maester Creylen had said, “then you must do it yourself. When Prince Tyrion is seven days old you must take him to the courtyard, and there, where the entire castle can see, you must present him as your brother and the Prince of Faerie.”

“But what about the blessings?” Prince Jaime asked. “There must always be seven blessings, when a Prince or Princess of Faerie is born.”

The maester considered this. “I will grant the child my blessing,” he said, “and you will be the second. The gods will put the others in your way. Therefore you must ask the first five fairies you see in the courtyard to stand as the other godmothers to the young Prince.” 

Prince Jaime nodded solemnly. 

On the seventh day, Prince Jaime and old Maester Creylen went to the nursery and ordered the wetnurse, Elen, to bring young Prince Tyrion into the great courtyard of Casterly Rock. There Prince Jaime cast about for the first five fairies he could see. 

His eye fell upon Fat Magda, the mistress of the kitchens, red-faced, jolly and kind, who always had a kind word and a sweet roll for him. He saw Milla, a pretty, giggling serving wench with a saucy eye and a swelling bosom, and Bronn, a cold-eyed sell-sword with a wry, crooked smile. He saw a young boy from a travelling band of mummers, crossing the courtyard on his way to a pair of gaily painted wagons. 

And when the babe began to cry, he turned back to see the wetnurse shushing him, crooning a soft lullaby, and putting him to her breast. 

And so on that day when young Prince Jaime announced to the crowded courtyard that he was here to present his brother, Prince Tyrion, to the world, full seven blessings were granted to the young Prince as he slept in his wetnurse’s arms. 

“He shall have a keen wit,” Maester Creylen intoned. 

Fat Magda cooed and smiled warmly at the babe. “He shall have a prodigious appetite,” she said. 

“He shall be generously endowed,” pretty, saucy Milla announced, giggling. “And he shall never fail to please.”

Bronn, the sell-sword, squinted down at the babe and said: “He shall always land on his feet. He’ll need to be a lucky bastard to survive this world.” 

The mummers’ boy looked wide-eyed and properly solemn, and gave the babe the highest blessing he knew. “He shall have a silver tongue,” he said. 

The wetnurse, Elen, cradling the babe in her arms, smiled mistily down at him. “He will grow strong and healthy,” she whispered, “no matter how he was born,” and well-wished him with all her might. Had her power been stronger than a mere will-o-the-wisp, the force of her blessing might have held considerable force. 

Finally it was Prince Jaime’s turn. He looked down at his sleeping brother, rested his fingertip against the soft, tiny cheek. “He shall be loved,” he said. 

Thus was Prince Tyrion, the youngest Prince of Faerie, presented to the world. 

** 

**1.**

** 

Tyrion was a Prince of Faerie, a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the son – even a despised dwarf son – of the great King of the Uttermost West. 

Thus it came as something of a surprise when Catelyn Stark, the mortal Queen of the North, seized him at the Inn of the Crossroads. 

A party of avid bannermen accompanied them into the Vale, inspired by her fervid speech – as well as a lone, cold-eyed sell-sword with a wry, crooked smile. 

Tyrion talked, all the way to the Eyrie. He had been granted wit and a silver tongue, and on that long journey, surrounded by foes, he exercised them to the fullest; he reasoned, coaxed, charmed and cajoled, tried to sow doubts in their minds or win them over, appealed to their reason and their fears and their greed. 

Lannisters always pay their debts, he said, warning and promise in one. 

By the time he got to the Eyrie, he thought that some of his seeds might have borne fruit. 

When he stood alone before Lysa Arryn, facing the vast emptiness exposed by the Moon Door, he chanced his luck and heard, as if in a dream, a voice from the back of the hall say: “I’ll stand for the dwarf.”

Tyrion turned to see the sellsword pushing his way through the crowd. He threw Tyrion a wry look, the corner of his mouth curled up. 

“And who are you?” The Queen of the Vale demanded furiously.

“My name is Bronn,” the sell-sword said. 

**

Afterwards, Tyrion said: “My brother Jaime told me a story, once, of a sell-sword named Bronn.” 

“Oh, aye?” Bronn asked. “I bet he told it like a grand fairy-tale. Kings and princes and grand blessings and what-not.” 

“A lucky bastard, isn’t that what you said?”

“Your brother Jaime had seven great lords and ladies attend his presentation. I bet they granted him all sorts of grand virtues. But if you ask common fairy-folk for blessings, you get common virtues.” He grinned lecherously. “As I recall, there was a saucy wench who granted you a great big cock.”

Tyrion laughed. “Well, I thank you – for the luck, and for killing the noble ser Vardis Egen.”

“Don’t thank me. That blessing earned me a nice fat purse of Lannister gold. And as for ser Vardis – well. If I stick with you, who knows how many more fat purses of gold are waiting for me?” 

“As many as you please,” Tyrion said easily. “So long as you keep me alive.”

“Aye. That’s what I thought.”

Bargain struck, they strolled down the long, winding mountain path. 

** 

**2.**

** 

Their bargain held through mountain clansmen and pitched battles in the Riverlands, through palace intrigue and a city under siege and the eldritch green light of wildfire burning on Blackwater Bay. 

Until Joffrey’s death. Until he chanced his luck again and demanded trial by combat. Until the news that the Crown’s champion was to be Ser Gregor Clegane. 

“No,” Bronn said. “Absolutely not.” And then, as an afterthought – “Sorry.”

“But – we made a bargain,” Tyrion protested. “You’re my godmother!”

“Look,” Bronn said reasonably. “I’m not your bloody brother. I sell my sword; I sell my blessings. I don’t give them away.” 

“If I die, the gold dies with me,” Tyrion warned. 

“Aye, that may be true.” Bronn considered this. “Thing is, though; your sister’s made me a lord, and given me a fat castle and a rich wife.” He frowned. “Or maybe it’s the other way ‘round.”

“Lollys Stokeworth!” Tyrion said, outraged. “She’s been had by half the men of Flea Bottom. Gods know which of them put that babe in her belly. And besides, she’s got an older sister.” 

Bronn grinned villainously. “Not for long,” he said. “But cheer up, young prince. Who knows – your luck might hold. And if it’s any consolation, I’ll be sorry to see you die.”

And on that note, he left Tyrion to his fate. 

**

The oddest thing was, Bronn was right: his luck held. 

_He shall always land on his feet,_ Bronn had said, long years ago. And even as his hopes rose and fell with Prince Oberyn, even as he waited for death only for Jaime to free him, even as he fled to Essos where chance, circumstance and Varys’ plotting blew him this way and that, he somehow always managed to find his feet. 

Wit, and luck, and a silver tongue – not to mention a giant cock – could take a man – even a dwarf – far in this world. 

Far from home, and back again. 

** 

**3\. Optional bonus epilogue**

** 

Long years passed. Kings rose and fell, and Queens took their place only to fall to madness and fire. Tyrion kept his feet as best he could, and if his heart took a few knocks along the way, well, that was just life. 

When the cruel grip of winter finally gave way to spring, he stood in the newly rebuilt Tower of the Hand, the sounds of hammering and reconstruction drifting up from below, and marveled that he had come so far only to return to the beginning. 

“I knew you were a lucky one from the moment I saw you,” Bronn said smugly, his booted feet up on the council table. “Born into any other family, you’d have been left out to die, but no – you were a prince of Faerie. Your father and sister hated you, but your big brother loved you – the luckiest dwarf in all the world, I thought.”

“And so you only strengthened it,” Tyrion said. 

“That’s the best kind of blessing. Why waste power trying to create something from nothing, when you can build on what’s already there?” He grinned. “Even if your golden brother hadn’t rounded up seven blessings for you, I bet you’d still have turned out just the same.”

“And you’d still have profited in my service.”

“Of course.” Bronn crossed his hands behind his head, displaying his fine velvet tunic and the heavy jeweled chain across his breast. “But the question is – without my luck, would you have been able to get away with making me Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin?”

**Author's Note:**

> To all those who have come to this from "The Third Blessing", please feel free to imagine that Jaime and Brienne (though not appearing in this fic) are living their best life, free of the constraints of season 8. 
> 
> I only threw in Bronn as Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin because it was too good to resist.


End file.
